In Her Own Hand
by courtney-in-the-tardis
Summary: When Sherlock is pardoned from exile and beginning to regress to his previous self, Molly is annoyed to say the least. An abductor of women is on the loose and leaving a strange trail behind him. Sherlock believes Mary is too close to her due date for John to get involved so he volunteers Molly to be his assistant and they are in a race against time to rescue the women. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

As soon as Molly walked through the front door of the flat she could feel his eyes on her. She shivered, mostly because of the temperature change from the wintery outside air into the warmth of the building, but also because she could feel herself being analyzed from head to toe. He was always watching her; always watching everybody. She purposely ignored him, refusing to meet his gaze she was sure was still upon her. She was angry with him, not only because of his slip back into drugs, but because of his callous behavior towards her the weeks following the incident. He was absent for quite some time after she'd slapped some sense into him, literally, but no more than a week later he waltzed back into her morgue, barking orders at her and being as dismissive towards her as he was years ago. He didn't speak of Moriarty and she didn't ask.

It was nearing the end of January and Molly had been invited by John to 221B for Mrs. Hudson's surprise birthday party. Molly always enjoyed the time she spent with Mrs. Hudson and was happy to attend the celebration. However, she was less than pleased that Sherlock would be in attendance. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror located to her left she frowned looking at the deep berry lipstick upon her lips. She suddenly had a flashback of the Christmas party long ago, when Sherlock had humiliated her in front of everyone. She lifted her hand to smear it away but thought twice and triumphantly put her hand down; she loved this lipstick and she would wear what she pleases.

"Molly!" the chipper voice of John Watson greeted her, "glad you could make it. Bit cold out there."

She smiled, "Oh yeah, that wind is vicious."

"I was almost too afraid to get Mary out in this but she insisted on being here; weather be damned. Stubborn as a bull, that one."

Molly shook her head at him, "As if you'd have it any other way."

"Quite right," he agreed, "want me to take your coat? It's miserable out there but you must be boiling in that thing in here."

She didn't realize how hot she felt under her large, puffy jacket until he'd said something. She gratefully obliged and shed the thick layer but suddenly felt naked as John walked away with it, his burnt orange jumper and head disappearing into Sherlock's bedroom.

"Molly, looking lovely as ever!" yelled Lestrade. She pivoted to face the silver haired detective inspector.

"Thank you, Greg. Wife couldn't make it?"

"Nah, we're having a bit of a row at the moment. She didn't think it decent to come out and fight in public so she told me to bugger off for a few hours while she cools down."

She frowned in concern, "That's the third row you guys have had this week."

"Eh," he dismissed her with a wave of his hand, "this is an improvement. We'll be fine."

She didn't believe him but she chose not to comment on the matter. "So, when is Mrs. Hudson going to be here?"

He looked down at his watch, "Should be any moment now, I suspect." Looking back up at her and over her shoulder Molly saw that his attention fell to the curly haired Sherlock Holmes, sitting on his couch by himself, staring out the window at the snow falling outside.

"Does he seem off to you?" he asked her, "Well, more off than normal?" he clarified.

She swallowed thickly as she continued to glance over her shoulder to look at his sullen face; his cheekbones deep in the shadow of the room. She knew he knew they were staring at him but she assumed he didn't much care.

Suddenly Lestrade's phone began to ring before Molly could answer him. She could see his wife's name appear on the screen before he hit the answer option. "If you'll excuse me, Molly. I need to take this."

She nodded, "Of course."

She found herself standing alone now. John was busy in the kitchen giving some of the food a finishing touch. Mary was downstairs, acting as a lookout for Mrs. Hudson, and now Greg had left her to the mercies of the handful of elderly ladies Mrs. Hudson played cards with from time to time. The only person left in the room that she knew was the stone faced detective, sitting by himself in the corner. She chewed at the inside of her cheek momentarily, contemplating her next move. Finally, giving up, she walked across the room to stand beside Sherlock.

"Mind if I sit with you?" she asked.

He said nothing but motioned his hand in a manner that seemed to say, _'do what you want.'_

She frowned but sat down beside of him anyway. Finding that he wasn't going to be much company she pulled out her phone to play a game to pass the time. When she reached the level in which she always lost she cursed under her breath as her character, yet again, died in the same spot as last time.

"You're jumping too early," a deep voice perked up beside of her.

Surprised she'd stirred anything out of him, she looked up from her screen to find he had shifted closer to her, watching her play.

She sighed, "You think you could do better, then?"

He scoffed, "I know I could do better."

"Fine then," she snorted, shoving the phone in his hand, "do it. You beat this level, I owe you a tenner."

He bent down, concentrated on the task at hand. Moments later he handed the phone back to her.

"I believe you promised me a tenner. Also, I believe I should receive something extra, as I have finished the next two levels. I could have beaten the entire game but I thought better than embarrass you."

She gaped at him in disbelief, the nerve!

"Why are you being like this?"

His forehead crinkled, "Being like what? I'm simply pointing out that the game is quite simple, but I wish to spare your feelings.

"How thoughtful," she spat bitterly. This is how it all started a few weeks ago; small jabs that lead to deeper insults.

"I thought so," he answered genuinely.

"What did I do to you, huh?"

"Do to me?" he asked, confusion evident over his features.

"Oh come off it, you've been nothing but rude to me since Christmas. Barking coffee orders at me, making hurtful comments, ignoring me altogether!"

He said nothing as his eyes left hers and he began facing forward again.

"It feels like the old days, when you said jump and expected me to foolishly say how high" she admitted in a quiet voice, "I thought we were past that but it looks like I'm back to square one in your good graces yet again. I'd hoped you'd come to respect me more than that."

With that she got up and walked to the opposite side of the room, not daring to look back at him.

Mary burst through the front door, smile plastered on her face and her eyes bright. Her very pregnant belly was evident under a deep red jumper. Molly couldn't help but think of how cute she looked. Being pregnant suited Mary, she decided.

"Everyone! Shush, Mrs. Hudson is coming. Hide! Hide!"

Everyone followed Mary's orders, not daring to cross a pregnant woman and crouched behind various bits of furniture. Molly was shocked to see that even Sherlock complied and hid by the arm of the couch. Before she knew it Mrs. Hudson was coming through the door and all of the guests were yelling "Surprise!" in unison and blowing party favor whistles. The joy that appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face was well worth the wait and Molly excitedly pulled the older woman in for a hug. When the hug ended Mrs. Hudson latched onto Molly's hand.

"Oh, I just can't believe it!" she exclaimed, "Everyone I love is here! You all went to so much trouble."

Releasing Molly, Mrs. Hudson made her rounds around the room, hugging and thanking everyone individually. When she reached Sherlock she gave him a sound kiss on the cheek and embraced him warmly. He patted her back a few times.

"Sherlock, I can't believe you partook in this. I'm also shocked you kept it a secret." He rolled his eyes but couldn't help but grin at the woman.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice carried over the happy murmurs of the guests as he reentered the room, "I need you to come with me to the Yard, something's happened. You may need to bring John."

John, who had his hand on his pregnant wife's stomach nodded and began to go and fetch his coat.

Sherlock stopped him in his tracks, "Where would you rank this, Graham? Below a five or above a five."

An annoyed Lestrade glared at him, "It's Greg, and I would definitely say above a five."

"Then it will take some time," Sherlock muttered. "John, your wife is far too close to her due date for you to get involved with this. You stay here with Mary, Molly will accompany me."

All eyes in the room come to settle on Molly.

"I'm sorry, Molly will what?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"Retrieve your coat, Molly!" he called over his shoulder, already reaching for his signature scarf and Belstaff like a child excited over a Christmas gift, "The game is on, Dr. Hooper!"

She glanced around the room to see the worried face of Mrs. Hudson, the apologetic faces of John and Mary, and Lestrade rolling his eyes and following after the madman with the flapping coat.

Seeing that she obviously had no other choice, Molly quickly grabbed her jacket from Sherlock's bedroom and followed him down the stairs and out of the flat into the cold night air.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, faved, and followed!**

The cab ride to their destination was mostly filled with silence. Said silence was only broken with a few choice questions from Sherlock, who when satisfied with Greg's answers, retreated to his mind palace. Molly found herself sandwiched between the detective inspector and consulting detective; much to her dismay. Regardless of who sat next to her in cramped spaces, she always felt overwhelmingly self-aware of her own breathing and the way that she would shift in her seat.

"What are we up against, Lestrade?" he'd asked beside of her. Her shoulder vibrated with the rumbling of his deep voice.

"Abduction," he answered, shifting his gaze between Sherlock and Molly, "we got a phone call from a panicked fiancé less than an hour ago. He came home early from a business trip to check on her. He spoke to her last night from his hotel before he went to bed and hadn't heard from her all day. All phone calls went to voicemail and texts left unanswered. According to him, it is out of character for her not to respond; she's practically glued to the thing. He rushed home to find their flat empty and a strange note."

"Define strange," Sherlock requested.

Greg shrugged, "Dunno, Sally only said strange. Didn't clarify."

She could feel Sherlock's eye roll, "Tip top force you've got, Geoff."

Molly scolded herself for snorting at Sherlock's words. Both men looked at her: Greg with annoyance and Sherlock with amusement. She smiled apologetically at Lestrade but made no effort to return Sherlock's smirk. She instead chose to keep her head forward and remain expressionless.

"It's Greg," Lestrade muttered under his breath, followed by, "egotistical wanker."

Molly knew Sherlock was smirking as he turned his head to look out the window of the moving cab.

* * *

Finally arriving at the flat, Sherlock was out of the vehicle in one swift move as Molly scooted out behind him. She surveyed the complex of homes, they were quite nice, something she would love to upgrade to someday. Lost in her thoughts, the men moved quickly ahead of her. When she noticed she shuffled quickly behind, wondering just what the hell she had gotten herself into this time.

Once they got to the correct floor Molly could see Sally and Anderson, standing outside of a door, deep in conversation. Upon seeing their detective inspector, they stood up a little straighter and nodded to him in greeting.

Anderson seemed unsurprised by Molly's presence but Sally on the other hand, grinned, "Freak rope you into this, Dr. Hooper?"

Before she could respond, Molly was interrupted. "Molly," Sherlock stated, "please refrain from speaking to the two of them, they'll lower your IQ. Besides, we have work to do."

Her mouth opened and then closed again, shrugging her shoulders to Sally and following the mad man into the flat. She admired the decorations in the flat, they were things she herself would pick out. A lot of mustard yellow and beige. Simple, yet homey. Incredibly Molly.

Sherlock seemed to have this observation as well, "Do you live here as well?" he whispered to her; attempting to alleviate the tension she felt towards him.

She locked eyes with him, "Are you quite finished?"

"Just making an observation," he defended.

"I am aware of what you do, Sherlock."

He stared at her a moment longer before turning on his heel, "Quite."

He led them into what appeared to be an office of sorts. Designs hung from the walls, carpet swatches strewn across the floor, and paint samples tucked in the corner.

"Interior design," Sherlock said out loud. She wasn't sure if he was speaking to himself or to her. She decided to answer him anyway.

"Yes, it appears so."

"Mr. Holmes," a male voice frantically spoke behind them. Molly turned to find a tall man with auburn hair and freckled skin standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted, worry all too apparent in his green eyes.

"I am," Sherlock confirmed.

The man hurriedly stepped forward, grasping Sherlock's hand in his own in a frantic handshake. The man then turned his attention to Molly. He reached out his hand awkwardly, "I'm sorry miss, I'm afraid I don't know your name. I was expecting another gentleman to be with the detective."

Molly gently placed her hand in his, "Molly, Molly Hooper. I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's. I'm a," she paused, "friend of Sherlock's. I sometimes fill in for his usual partner, John."

"Oh," he smiled briefly, "Well, it's nice to meet you Miss Hooper. I'm Nathaniel May. You can both call me Nate if you like. Most people prefer it."

"You're the fiancé," Sherlock said absently.

The young-ish man looked sad as Sherlock spoke. The grief was evident on his face. Molly's heart broke for him.

"You're in your early thirties, judging by your hairline and the skin around your eyes, but you appear much younger to those less observant. You have a nice job, hmmm," he stared the poor man up and down, "you sell pharmaceuticals. There's a business card for a depression medication company sticking out of your breast pocket and the messenger bag sitting by the door of this room has a brochure from the hotel you just frequented located in the outer side compartment."

The man's lip twitched, as if he wanted to smile but was too preoccupied to, "You are good, Mr. Holmes."

"Your fiancé," he paused.

"Quinn," Nate offered.

"Yes, Quinn. She's an interior designer, a successful one at that. Judging by the mass array of photographs of the two of you located on her desk and the numerous wedding invitation designs in that pile just to the left there, the two of you are quite happy. Wedding is coming up in three, no, four months"

"Absolutely correct," Nate confirmed. "Mr. Holmes, I didn't know where else to turn. When I came home, the door was wide open and Quinn wasn't here. I panicked. As soon as I found the note she left behind, I called and requested for you specifically straight away."

"Where is this note everyone keeps going on about?" Sherlock asked; his tone less than sympathetic.

"Sherlock," Molly warned, giving him her, 'bit not good' look.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, "Sorry, um, could I see the note please?" he smiled in that fake smile he'd used on her for so many years. Her anger soon returned upon seeing it. She stalked ahead of him, following Nate, and not looking back at him.

The note was located in the living area. Nate had sat it back down on the coffee table where he had found it. Sherlock snatched it from the table top and squinted at the writing and seemed to be lost at its meaning.

Growing impatient with his facial expression, Molly snatched the note from him and read it herself.

' _ **Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you. You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking (it comes to me in a dream).'**_

"Walt Whitman?" she asked, clearly as confused as Sherlock.

"Walt who?" Sherlock asked.

"Surely you must know Whitman, Sherlock," she said, "I've seen you read multiple books in one sitting. He's quite famous."

"I read scientific books, Dr. Hooper, not this sappy dribble."

"Well, he's quite famous. This is a part of his poem 'To a Stranger', if I'm not mistaken."

"But what can that mean?" asked Nate.

She chewed at her cheek nervously, "I don't know," she admitted.

"And this," Sherlock started, pushing the paper into Nate's face, "is Quinn's handwriting, correct?"

"Yes," he answered without a beat.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt," he fired back.

Molly looked to the photo hung above the fireplace in front of their sofa. She saw the happiness on Nate's face and he stood hand in hand with his fiancé, Quinn. She quite reminded Molly of her best friend as a child, Marine. Her dark skin practically glowed as it contrasted with the coral dress she was wearing. In that moment, Molly felt determined to find out what happened to Quinn and to hopefully bring her home alive to her fiancé.

"Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?" Nate asked in desperation.

Before Sherlock could open his mouth, Molly answered for him with her back still turned to them, "We'll find her, Mr. May."

When she did finally turn around to face them, she saw the gratitude on Nate's face and what seemed like pride from Sherlock's. But as soon as it was there, it was gone.

Nate stepped forward, taking her hand again, "Thank Dr. Hooper."

* * *

Sherlock and Molly caught a cab yet again, but this time without Lestrade; he had a few more things he needed to take care of at the May-Evert flat. Molly was grateful for the extra room on this ride and felt as though she could breathe easier, not having to be in such close proximity to Sherlock. She said nothing to him until the cab reached her flat.

"Do you think he had anything to do with it?" Molly asked.

He just simply looked at her.

"Nate, I mean," she clarified.

"No," Sherlock answered without hesitation.

"Good," she answered, lifting the handle to get out of the vehicle and head up to her flat to check on Toby.

"Molly," he called out to her before she shut her door.

She sighed, "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why did you pause?"

"What?"

"When you were introducing yourself to Nathaniel, you paused before saying you were my friend. Why was that?"

She hesitated for a moment, considering her answer. "Because sometimes, I doubt that you think of me as one."

With that she shut the door behind her and walked back into the chilly air on the way to her flat.

A/N: Poem credit to Mr. Walt Whitman

Also, I imagine Nate to look like Eddie Redmayne and Quinn to look like Kerry Washington. I like sharing my inspirational visuals. :) I'll do so with every original character I create.


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